


Flashes of Light

by magicbubblepipe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Don’t forget about me,” Sherlock calls after him, forcing levity into his voice for John’s sake. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Oh how could I ever forget you..."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Retrograde

 

“I still think this is an exceedingly foolish decision, John,” Sherlock grumps as the other man slings a duffel bag over his shoulder. His stomach twinges.

“It’s sweet of you to worry,” John quips lightly with broad smile. Sherlock touches the freshly trimmed blond hair of his lover. It feels different this short.

John places his hand over the back of Sherlock’s and looks steadily into his eyes, “I don’t want you to spend all your time fretting over me. I can take care of myself after all and you need to focus on getting your business started.”

Sherlock huffs, “ _And_ , I still think this is all a clever ploy to escape marrying me.” John chuckles. He’ll miss that sound when it’s gone.

“On my honour, I will make an honest man out of you just as soon as I return,” John pledges with a hand over his heart and a goofy grin on his face. _John._

A honking horn. The taxi has arrived to deliver John to the hotel he’ll be staying at with the other recruits. The same hotel they’ll be departing bright and early for boot camp. Sherlock’s heart is pounding its way into his throat.

They look at each other. John puts a hand on the back of his neck and pulls the taller man down into a kiss. Their lips move slowly against one another, sweetly savouring what they’ll soon come to miss. Another honk of the horn and Sherlock manages to disentangle his hands from the front of John’s shirt. With a soft caress of Sherlock’s cheek, John turns to go. _Don’t go._

“Don’t forget about me,” Sherlock calls after him, forcing levity into his voice for John’s sake.

“Oh how could I _ever_ forget _you_ ,” John shoots back with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock laughs outright. He moves to the window and watches John climb into the back of the cab. His chest aches.

“I love you, John Watson,” he whispers, his breath fogging the glass.

…

_Four Years Later…_

            John is coming home today. He’s been invalided out of the army but he is alive, moderately well, and he is coming home. Sherlock waits for him at Heathrow Airport, bouncing on the balls of his feet anxiously. His phone signifies another text from Mycroft. It’s the fifth one in the past two hours. Apparently he is unwilling to give up but Sherlock _will not_ reply. He won’t allow his brother to ruin his only true happiness in four years.

            He’s been dreaming of this moment, wondering what it will be like. Will John run immediately into his arms? Will he kiss him in front of everyone? He’s briefly reminded of the famous photograph of the sailor returning from war and he smirks to himself. The sound of sliding doors calls his attention and the passengers begin to emerge from their gate. Person after person walks by and Sherlock is even too nervous to analyze them; he’s got his neck craned, searching behind the taller passengers to try and get a glimpse of John.

            Suddenly, blond hair. His heart and stomach do matching somersaults. John arrives, limping with a cane, looking tired and worse for wear but still John, _his_ John. Sherlock is beaming and he can’t help it. John is walking in his direction. Sherlock holds out his arms to receive him. John walks right past him with nary a sideways glance.

            Sherlock is stunned. He can’t move; he can’t think, can’t even call out John’s name. A hand on his shoulder. Sherlock jolts. It must be John playing a joke. He turns quickly, only to have the smile fall from his face at the sight of his elder brother.

            “Sherlock, I was hoping to spare you this but you refused to answer your phone,” Mycroft says, his expression somewhere between pained and inconvenienced.

            What is he talking about? “What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock demands, looking around him all the while to see if he can spot John. Is he mad at him for something? Sherlock can’t recall anything he’s done recently to upset John all the way in Afghanistan.

            “It’s John.” This grabs his attention. “You know that he’s been shot,” Sherlock nods an affirmation. He had worked that bit out in a few seconds. “But did you know about the explosion?”

            Explosion. Sherlock’s mind is reeling with possibilities but Mycroft continues, “While he was distracted with his wound, he was unable to run away from a nearby land rover when it exploded. He was blasted to the ground, resulting in massive head trauma. In short, Sherlock, he was left with retrograde amnesia. The last memory he can strongly recall is being accepted into medical school.”

            Sherlock feels like falling over. When Sherlock met John, he was already a surgeon. John does not remember him. He has the strong urge to be sick.

            “Is it permanent?” he hears himself ask, his words muted and slow to his own ears.

            “There’s no way to tell,” Mycroft replies, “Human memory is a tricky thing. It could last the rest of his life or it could wear off in a week. The good news is, his hippocampus was unharmed so he has no trouble in creating new memories.”

            Sherlock can hardly hear past the blood pounding in his ears. His head is getting hot and for the first time, he feels like he might pass out. Mycroft puts a hand on his arm and tries to guide him to a chair. He snaps to and snatches his arm away, running toward the nearest exit with burning eyes. 


	2. Self-Destruct

            Over the next two weeks, Sherlock’s hard drive begins to self-destruct. After the initial disbelief comes anger and when that begins to fade it makes way for an all-consuming misery. He turns to drugs more than once in this time period; it numbs the pain for just a little while but overall, it’s not worth the agonizing crash. After all else has failed him, Sherlock comes to a decision.

He must have John back in his life. Damn the consequences.

            This will take some serious planning and must be carefully orchestrated. He will have to get in touch with everyone they knew during their time together and coerce them into behaving as if they have never met John. Mrs. Hudson has been in a horrible state since she learned the news and insists on doting on Sherlock hand and foot. Annoying really but she’ll be bound to do him this one favour and pass along the word to Mrs Turner. Mycroft probably figured out Sherlock’s plan the moment it came into being so there’s one uncomfortable conversation they don’t have to have.  

            The next step: shuffle all belongings into boxes and haphazard stacks to appear as if Sherlock has just moved in. Not really a difficult leap. Then: get into contact with Mike Stamford. He still owes Sherlock a favour after he cleared up the shady situation of his wife’s supposedly dead former husband.

            “Do you recall a John Watson from your school days, Mike?”

            “Watson…yeah I think I had some classes with him.”

            “Listen, I need you to do something for me.”

            Explain to Mike about John’s condition. _It doesn’t matter because he wouldn’t remember you anyway. Act chummy._ He’ll be bound to be desperate for money; London is too expensive on an army pension. _Catch him on the way home from therapy._ _Bring him to me._

            Sherlock waits in the predetermined pathology lab (the place where he and John had first kissed. Trying to spark some kind of memory; not likely), his stomach a mass of jittering knots. Mike could bring him in any time now. He tinkers around, finishing up on that case for Lestrade. For the first time since he concocted this plan, he wonders if he can actually do this. Being around John without being able to touch him, hold him, kiss him…anguish. Unimaginable. But perhaps his memory will come back and if it does, Sherlock will be there, ready.

            The door opens. Sherlock’s heart leaps into his throat.

            “Ah, bit different from my day.” It’s the first time he’s heard John’s voice since he returned. He chooses not to acknowledge the goose bumps on his arms. He looks up, into the face he knows better than his own and sees no recognition in those eyes. It hurts. He gathers his calm.

            “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” Act casual. Send that text to Lestrade.

            “And what’s wrong with the landline?”

            “I prefer to text.”

            “Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

            “Er, here. You can use mine.” A zing of electricity up Sherlock’s spine. He blinks. “Oh. Thank you.” Their hands touch. The hairs raise on the back of his neck. His skin is buzzing.

            Mike introduces him, playing his part nicely enough. It wouldn’t fool Sherlock of course but John seems to be going along with it just fine. Sherlock proceeds to deduce John, much like the way he had done when they first met, those years ago. John is just as amazed as he ever was, his eyes bright and full of awe. There seems to be a fist inside Sherlock’s chest, crushing his heart like a vice.

            He turns on the charm, gives out the address and makes his hasty departure. Once around the corner, he leans his back against the wall and breathes. It sticks somewhere halfway down.

 

…

 

_Six years earlier_

           

            On Sherlock’s twentieth birthday, he treats himself to a morgue visit at St. Bartholomew’s. He hunches over a body, plastic baggie and clippers in hand, collecting fingernails. He blows upwards into his overlong fringe, shifting it out of his eyes only for it to fall right back. Footsteps down the hallway. A surge of adrenaline.

            Sherlock seals up his baggie and stuffs it and the clippers into his pocket just in time for the door to swing open.

            “You’re still here, Sam- Oh.”

            Sherlock whirls around to find a young surgeon, standing in the doorway with a look of confusion on his face. Confusion which soon shifts into suspicion.  

            “Who are you?” His voice is firm, used to giving orders.

            “Sherlock Holmes. Samantha lets me in to look at the bodies sometimes.” The look of bewildered horror on the man’s face causes Sherlock to elaborate. “For my research. I’m…sort of a detective.”

            “Are you that kid that badgers the police?”

            A flare of hot indignation. “I do not _badger_ them, I make them look like idiots and solve their cases for them.”

            He doesn’t miss the spark of interest in the surgeon’s eyes (which are a rather intriguing dark shade of blue). “How?”

            “The science of deduction. I can tell almost anything about anybody.” It’s not bragging if it’s true.

            The shorter man folds his arms across his chest, “Go on then.”

            Oh. Well. “You’re a surgeon. Graduated…two years ago. You’re very good at what you do and you enjoy it. It gives you a sense of purpose, I suspect. You also like the thrill. You have a strained relationship with your older brother. You live alone, south of here. Your landlord has many cats and you take your coffee with no sugar.”

            The surgeon’s mouth has gone slack, his eyebrows having ascended into his blond fringe. “How on earth…?”

            Sherlock smiles tightly. “This is the part where you call me a creep and threaten to call security-”

            “That was amazing!” This exclamation cuts Sherlock’s sentence in half.

            Come again? Sherlock blinks in shock, a surge of warmth filling him up and spreading out onto his cheeks. “That’s not what people normally say.”

            “What do they normally say?”

            “Piss off.”

            The man laughs then. The sound surprises Sherlock. He’s so rarely the cause of laughter that isn’t malicious and at his expense. He smiles along too, appreciating how light and soft the surgeon’s face has become. Perhaps he isn’t about to get kicked out after all.

            After a moment’s recovery, the blond man extends his hand to Sherlock. “I’m John Watson.”

            His hand is warm and steady. 


End file.
